Ally stands at the door in a black hoodie and pajama bottoms. She holds a plastic grocery bag at her waist with both hands.
“Can I come in?” She bites her lip.
I nod and wave her over. I can’t do much more than whisper. She inspects my IV and flicks the bag holding the medicine.
“Stop it,” I say.
“I saw your parents on the way out. They looked good.”
“Yeah, they’re all right.”
“Were they mad?”
“Not yet.” I pause and hallucinate little red hearts dancing around her face. “It was an old car anyway. I think they were just happy that I’m not dead.”
“They’re calling you a hero,” she says.
“Who?”
“The news and stuff.”
“For what?”
“You know, finding the kids”
“Psh, I’m no hero,” I say, but my modesty is betrayed by burning cheeks.
“That’s what I said.” Her smile stretches until her eyes are nearly closed. She takes my hand in hers, and I let myself sink into the comfortable bed, deeper and deeper. I feel her hand tighten and I emerge from the fog. “So, what’d you tell them?” she asks.
“Tell who what?”
“Your parents, everybody. What did you see up there?”
I tell her the truth: “I don’t know.” Ally nods, accepting the answer that the doctors, police and my parents can’t.
“Some people still think it was the sheriff,” she says.
“It’s a free country. People can think what they want.”
“And they’re burning the forest around the cemetery, trying to smoke the wolves or bears or whatever out. You should see it. The whole mountain is on fire.” Skeptical emphasis laces her words, and I would reach up and hug her if I wasn’t so weak. I can’t help but smile at the thought of adults doing stupid things in the name of fear. It’s comforting.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” I nod to the bag in her hands. “What’s that?”
“Oh these?” She holds the bag to my face. I pull away from the severe edges sticking through plastic. Videocassettes.
“Oh.”
Her smile disappears. “Oh? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t think I can watch those anymore.”
She looks like she wants to say something, but then stops herself. Her face relaxes, but the hurt remains.
“I’m sorry.”
“Just kidding.”
“You!—” She pauses and looks around. “Fucker!” She says it right when my nurse enters the room. The nurse gasps. She turns around, and leaves, embarrassed.
“No, wait!” I say, then to Ally: “Go grab her. They have to have a VCR somewhere in this old dump.”
Ally runs out into the hall and yells in the direction of the nurse’s retreat. “We need five CCs of VCR, stat!” She claps her hands twice to accentuate the annoyance. “Chop, chop!”
Moments later, they roll in an ancient TV with a built-in VCR. The screen’s not more than 10x10 inches. The picture is washed out; the blood’s orange. It’s okay because I’ve seen these movies a thousand times.
We talk along with the dialogue and cover our ears at the tense parts because the surprising sounds make us jump.
We watch the most violent fucking shit until the nurse wakes us and tells Ally to go home.